"Oh, you!--you have not my fine feelings!" responded Mrs Marcella, sitting with the glass in her hand, and looking askance at its reddish-brown contents. "Come, sup it up, and get it over," said her sister. "O Jane!--you unfeeling creature!" "'Twill be no better five minutes hence, I'm sure." "You see what I suffer, Clarissa!" wailed Mrs Marcella, gulping down the medicine, and pulling a terrible face. "Jane has no feeling for me. She never had. I am a poor despised creature whom nobody cares for. Well, I suppose I must bear it. 'Tis my fate. But what I ever did to be afflicted in this way! Oh, the world's a hard place, and life's a very, very dreary thing. Oh dear, dear!" Phoebe Latrobe, who had been sent by Madam to tell the news at the Maidens' Lodge, sat quietly listening in a corner. But when Mrs Marcella began thus to play her favourite tune, Phoebe rose and took her leave. She called on Lady Betty, who expressed her gratification in the style of measured propriety which characterised her. Lastly, with a slow and rather tired step, she entered the gate of Number One. She had left her friend Mrs Dorothy to the last. "Just in time for a dish of tea, child!" said little Mrs Dorothy, with a beaming smile. "Sit you down, my dear, and take off your hood, and I will have the kettle boiling in another minute. Well, and how have you enjoyed your visit? You look tired, child." "Yes, I feel tired," answered Phoebe. "I scarce know how I enjoyed the visit, Mrs Dorothy--there were things I liked, and there were things I didn't like." "That is generally the case, my dear." "Yes," said Phoebe, abstractedly. "Mrs Dorothy, did you know Mrs Marcella Talbot when she was young?" "A little, my dear. Not so well as I know her now." "Was she always as discontented as she is now?" "That is a spirit that grows on us, Phoebe," said Mrs Dorothy, gravely. Phoebe blushed. "I know you think I have it," she replied. "But I should not wish to be like Mrs Marcella." "I think thy temptation lies that way, dear child. But thy disposition is not so light and frivolous as hers. However, we will not talk of our neighbours without we praise them." "Mrs Dorothy, Rhoda has engaged herself to Mr Marcus Welles. Madam sent me down to tell all of you." "She has, has she?" responded Mrs Dorothy, as if it were quite what she expected. "Well, I trust it may be for her good." "Aren't you sorry, Mrs Dorothy?" "Scarce, my dear. We hardly know what are the right things to grieve over. You and I might have thought it a very mournful thing when the prodigal son was sent into the field to feed swine: yet--speaking after the manner of men--if that had not happened, he would not have arisen and have gone to his father." "Do you think Rhoda will have to go through trouble before she can find peace, Mrs Dorothy?" "`Before she can--' I don't know, my dear. Before she will--I am afraid, yes." "I am so sorry," said Phoebe.